


that's just my battle scar

by suzukiblu



Series: Avamorphs [3]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Child Abuse, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Sibling Incest, Violence, but for obvious reasons I'm tagging for it anyway, kind of not really incest, look AUs are complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Zuko Five Three Three is assigned a new host. It’s not a promotion, exactly—more of a reshuffling of resources. Someone requested him for the human side of the Earth invasion, which is odd since he’s only ever been in the Hork-Bajir shock troops and a voluntary host and can’t imagine who’d think he could win over members of a species they’ve barely started conquering. He’sterriblewith hosts.
Relationships: Azula/Zuko (Avatar), Mai/Zuko (Avatar), Ty Lee/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Avamorphs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581343
Comments: 35
Kudos: 270





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Zuko (and Lee) and Azula-centric prequel side stories.

Zuko Five Three Three is assigned a new host. It’s not a promotion, exactly—more of a reshuffling of resources. Someone requested him for the human side of the Earth invasion, which is odd since he’s only ever been in the Hork-Bajir shock troops and a voluntary host and can’t imagine who’d think he could win over members of a species they’ve barely started conquering. He’s _terrible_ with hosts. 

Forget that—he’s terrible with other _Yeerks_. Mai Six Two Four is the only person he has any relationship other than “working” with. 

Well. His host was agreeable enough, he supposes, and _her_ host was agreeable enough the few times he’d had to deal with it, but they’re _hosts_. They don’t really count. They’re simple and dim-witted and—

“Oh,” Zuko says with a new, _shockingly_ adept mouth, eyes so much sharper than he’s used to and widening in surprise as he lifts a head on a too-short neck and an unfamiliar language comes to his lips. “It’s _intelligent_.” 

< Hn. You think so? > his host asks curiously, raking their hair out of their eyes and glancing around the room—this isn’t the proper pool, seeing as that’s not the smartest place to take a just-recruited voluntary host. Zuko mentally shoos it away from the motor controls and ripples of dubiousness come back at him, but the host’s consciousness flits away with his shooing all the same. They said it was a brand-new host, but it doesn’t really seem any more unsettled or surprised than Zuko is himself, adjusting to a new body. 

“You could call them that, I suppose,” Azula Eight Nine Five says disinterestedly from beside him, busy inspecting her own new host’s face in a small—pocket mirror, his host supplies—with a critical eye. She is his partner and superior on this mission. “Certainly they’re a step up from Hork-Bajir in terms of conversation, but that implies you’d want to _make_ conversation.” Zuko’s new body laughs, and he pushes the host’s consciousness down again scoldingly. 

Azula Eight Nine Five makes an expression that Zuko’s host associates with amusement and self-satisfaction—she thinks Zuko was the one to laugh, probably. He doesn’t really get what was so funny, though. 

“These two hosts have been trained to fight in human martial arts,” Azula Eight Nine Five tells him, peering more carefully into her mirror and pressing a finger into her cheek to test the give and texture. “We’ll have to get the things properly _battle_ -ready, of course, but Ozai Three is expecting strong results.” 

“I thought humans outside their military didn’t train to fight,” Zuko says curiously. His host’s mind flashes through memories of a litany of lazy, out-of-shape humans and parallel memories of the opposite end of the spectrum, muscle and sinew and the need to fight, fight, _fight_ —

Azula Eight Nine Five whips her host’s leg at his head, and his host dives beneath it and swings their fist for her stomach; Azula Eight Nine Five twists to avoid the strike and grabs his host’s arm, yanking them off-balance and sending them stumbling forward. 

“Sometimes they do,” Azula Eight Nine Five says casually, smoothing her host’s hair and wearing the amusement/self-satisfaction expression again, then making a beckoning gesture. Zuko steps in close, expecting another strike in the interest of sparring and becoming more used to new bodies, but instead Azula Eight Nine Five pushes herself up on her toes and presses their mouths together. 

“What was that?” Zuko asks with a confused frown, touching his lips. They feel odd, and oddly unsatisfied too. 

“Our hosts are known to be mates,” Azula Eight Nine Five informs him matter-of-factly, and Zuko’s host laughs inside their head. “We must practice behaving accordingly.” 

< That was a really, _really_ bad first try, > Zuko’s host snorts, and brings up its own memories to show Zuko, things involving a great deal of mouth and tongue and teeth and inventive uses of human hands. He hesitates, unsure how to proceed with the actions therein despite the clarity of the memories, but . . . 

But . . . 

No. It’s not that. 

“Mai Six Two—” he begins hesitantly, and Azula Eight Nine Five snorts and cuts him off. 

“Mai Six Two Four is in service on Ozai Three’s Blade Ship, and _you_ are my subordinate,” she snaps. “We are loyal soldiers of the Great Yeek Empire, and I will not allow our human covers to be compromised because you have lingering affection for a past comrade. Is that _understood_ , Zuko Five Three Three?” 

“Yes, Azula Eight Nine Five,” Zuko replies slowly, trying not to frown. He understands his responsibilities and he understands the importance of keeping cover, but this feels . . . 

He would prefer not to do this to Mai Six Two Four. 

“Good,” Azula Eight Nine Five says in satisfaction. “We will resume practice.” 

< Well, _this_ should be funny to watch. >


	2. Chapter 2

< I can _walk_ , you know, > Zuko Five Three Three’s new host says dubiously, and Zuko’s so startled he stumbles—humans have no tails, humans have such strange-shaped feet and knees that bend the wrong way, and he’s nowhere _near_ used to them yet. < Apparently better than you. Shove over, moron, you do it like _this_. >

Zuko’s dealt with resisting hosts before, of course—no one _gets_ a host before they’ve had the training for that—but this one doesn’t resist, this one just . . . he doesn’t know how to say it, exactly. It’s like the way Mai Six Two Four used to cover his hands with her own when she was demonstrating the way to move through a fighting stance, except it’s in his _head_. Not fighting to get past him like every other host he’s reigned in and not beneath him to be smothered when he tries to push it down; just there, _with_ him, and showing him what to do. 

And then just like that, he’s not the one doing the walking. He swears in Hork-Bajir, and Azula Eight Nine Five gives him a dubious look for it. 

“Well _that’s_ certainly not suspicious,” she says dryly. 

“Right, because there’s _totally_ someone on Earth who’s going to recognize ginsu-dinosaur talk,” Zuko’s host says, rolling their eyes, and Zuko immediately lunges to pin down its consciousness. What in Mother _Sky_ —

And dammit, wonderful, now he’s _thinking_ in Hork-Bajir terminology. He’s going to get executed at this rate. 

Or worse, written _up_. 

“‘Ginsu-dinosaur’?” Azula Eight Nine Five repeats in bemusement, just _staring_ at him. 

“What the hell _is_ this species?!” Zuko demands of her in a half-panicked hiss, still trying to get enough of a grip on his host to shove it down, except its mind is _nothing_ like a Hork-Bajir’s and it’s not exactly resisting him but it won’t stay _down_ either. Azula Eight Nine Five’s eyes narrow calculatingly and she opens her mouth, but that’s when the Hork-Bajir around them stiffen into respectful postures and horrible timing happens. 

Meaning, that’s when Ozai Three steps into the hall on light, delicate hooves. 

The grappling contest between Zuko and his host’s consciousness falters for a second, and the host slips past and tilts the body sideways to stare at Ozai Three with wide, alarmed eyes. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” it says, and Zuko _lunges_ for control. This time, the human’s already recoiling from the controls and diving down . . . not beneath, the way it should naturally go, but _behind_. Before he has time to figure that out, though, he’s pinned to the ship wall by piercing golden eyes. 

< Are you unable to control your host, Zuko Five Three Three? > Ozai Three inquires mildly, head tipping ever so slightly, and Zuko’s host _screams_ inside their head. 

< Make it go _away_! > it wails, recoiling from the resonant, all-consuming _force_ of the Visser’s thoughtspeak in its mind, and for the first time it sounds like the child Zuko expected it to be. He yanks it down _deep_ below the surface and it goes as fast as if it’d thrown _itself_ down, as if it already knows the way. 

“Apologies, Visser. The host is—I am not used to the way human minds function,” he manages roughly, giving a stiff bow. “May the rays of the Kandrona shine and strengthen you.” 

Ozai Three gives Zuko a long look with all four eyes, one that nearly stops the fragile human heart he’s using, and then dismisses him with a curt version of the customary response and turns to address Azula Eight Nine Five. The relief is like a _blow_ , even being used to the Visser’s presence.

He reaches to quiet his host and it jerks back further, whimpering to itself. There are memories around it and Zuko touches one to see what it is: up comes the image of a much larger human male, big and looming and then a burst of _pain_ and his host cries out again in fright, trying to hide from it. Zuko shoos the image away, and the images surrounding it—flashes pass through him, pain and terror and that looming human male and the barest, briefest flash of a sad, sad woman—and his host is afraid, his host is terrified and _cowering_ and Ozai Three’s voice strings all these memories to it like chains, evoking all the same feelings of helplessness and fear. 

Zuko does not understand. 

He touches the host’s consciousness again, and it _cringes_. 

< No no no no _no_ — >

< Wake up, > he tells it, and it curls up tighter and—and it makes a noise he does not recognize, a noise like choking, strangled and broken. Zuko attempts to shoo away more of the memories but every one he touches bursts open bright like a star and his host curls in even smaller and makes even more choking noises and the memories, they’re all so _painful_ , he doesn’t even have the time to look at them but he can _feel_ the pain. It’s . . . it doesn’t really . . . 

He’s never felt something like this from a host. He’s been in involuntary hosts, in ones taken against their will, in angry or hopeless ones, but never . . . never . . . 

This host is _wounded_. 

“What are you _doing_?” Azula Eight Nine Five hisses under her breath, and Zuko touches his face bemusedly. It’s wet, and his vision is blurring. Her own face twitches slightly, and Zuko’s host’s instincts say “distress”—her host is upset. 

“I’m not sure,” he says in confusion. Azula Eight Nine Five’s face flashes between different expressions, fury and concern and outrage and fear and other things he can’t keep up with, and her talons—her nails, he corrects himself distantly—her nails dig into the inside of his wrist. 

Ozai Three’s eyes narrow, very slightly, and he steps forward with a gentle click of delicate hooves and impossible grace. 

Zuko’s host _wails_. 

The strike is lazy. Zuko knows this because he is not dead, not because he actually _sees_ it. Humans are so, so slow. 

And yet somehow, his host’s arm is in the way of Ozai Three’s tail blade. 

“Ah,” Zuko says, staring at his arm, staring at the scythe stuck through it and not Azula Eight Nine Five’s neck. Azula Eight Nine Five stares at it too, and her face twitches again. Ozai Three extracts the blade with supreme delicacy. 

Then it _hurts_. 

< How _interesting_ , > Ozai Three says as Zuko hits the floor with a voiceless cry of pain, curling up around his bleeding arm and oh—oh _Deep_ , humans heal slow. Humans heal _so_ slow. 

This was not the way he wanted to learn that. 

< Now how did you block that, Zuko Five Three Three? > Ozai Three asks curiously, the bloody tip of his tail blade tracing the edge of Zuko’s soft new human jaw. His host . . . his host is turned off, like someone flipped a switch. He has no other word for it. 

“I didn’t, Visser,” Zuko says, because lying to Ozai Three is such an insane concept he cannot even _comprehend_ it. 

Ozai Three tilts his head, and all four of his eyes focus on Zuko. It’s the closest thing he’s ever gotten to a look of approval from the Visser, and enough to make a cold chill go down his spine. 

“I didn’t, Visser,” he says again. “It was the host.” 

Ozai Three’s eyes _narrow_. 

< _Was_ it now? >

“Yes, Visser,” Zuko says, gritting his teeth. He bleeds down his chest and onto the floor, and the flat side of Ozai Three’s tail blade smoothes up his face and drags his hair with it. 

< A warrior, > Ozai Three observes absently, looking at Zuko’s temple for some reason. < Look at that, the humans _do_ make them. >

“After a fashion, Visser,” Azula Eight Nine Five says, her posture crisp and military-perfect and face completely impassive. “These hosts are a mated pair and were recruited as such. They are to be used to recruit voluntary hosts through The Sharing.” 

< Repair it before it bleeds to death, then, > Ozai Three decides at length, eyeing Zuko a moment longer. When he dismisses him again and steps past them, Zuko sags under the relief and curls up tighter around his wounded arm. Azula Eight Nine Five stands stiff and attentive until he’s passed, then starts barking orders at the Hork-Bajir and recruits the nearest one to drag Zuko to the medical bay. 

He tries to find his host. It’s still a little knot inside itself, but memories aren’t crowding around it anymore. It’s just . . . off. 

Zuko touches it. It flinches. He touches it again, more gently, and it ripples in frightened trepidation and stays hidden in itself. 

He damaged it. Or it damaged itself. Ozai Three scared his host and his host equated that fear with physical danger and then suddenly the arm was just in the _way_. 

“You _idiot_!” Azula Eight Nine Five snaps irritably, stalking beside them. “That was a _warning_. Ozai Three would’ve held the blade to my throat at _worst_. Now you’ve injured your host and we’ll have to manufacture a way to explain it to the humans!” 

“Long sleeves,” Zuko mutters, although he doesn’t even know what a “sleeve” _is_ or why it would explain anything. Azula Eight Nine Five purses her lips, scowling at him, and he tries to find his host again. 

It . . . it _weeps_. 

That’s the choking noise. 

It’s how humans weep. 

< Come back, > Zuko says. He’s never had a host _hide_ from him before. Always they either fight or submit, never do they just . . . _vanish_. 

The host doesn’t respond, and he tries again. 

< Come back. >

Nothing. 

< It’s . . . it’s alright, host. The Visser has left. It’s . . . safe. >

The host softens, just barely. Zuko reaches forward and touches it again. It doesn’t soften further, but it doesn’t tense either, and he presses their consciousnesses together, searching for a way in. He could pry, but it’s still hurting and afraid and he doesn’t want to injure it. A host wild with pain and terror is not a host easily controlled, and after a display as embarrassing as all that it’s the _last_ problem he needs. 

And he doesn’t like having a distressed host, anyway. It feels . . . 

It’s uncomfortable.

< It’s safe, > Zuko says again, stroking the surface of his host’s consciousness. It shudders, and then _finally_ unfolds again. 

< No it’s not, > it says. Technically, Zuko can’t argue. 

< Safer, then, > he admits. The host unfolds a little further. Zuko wraps his consciousness around it the way his body is wrapped around its brain and means to force it into a placid state—except the host suddenly _clings_ to him and that’s . . . that . . . 

No host has ever done that. They _talk_ to him, sometimes, but . . . 

No host has ever _touched_ him. 

Hosts don’t do that. 

Except this one is. This one is holding _onto_ him, like—like it wants him to be here. Like it wants him to _stay_ , and that’s something else hosts aren’t supposed to do. And really, it only does it for a moment before it catches itself and shifts back, but it still does it all the same. 

< Sorry, > it mutters, and shifts further away. 

< It’s . . . don’t worry about it, > Zuko says slowly, and touches it again. It goes still. It goes very, _very_ still. 

A memory flashes through it, almost too fast to catch, and Zuko sees the sad woman again, hidden in the dark and reaching out. 

He reaches out behind the ghost of her and suddenly he is _in_ that moment and his host is much, much smaller, a little boy in the woman’s arms. 

In Zuko’s arms, in a manner of speaking. 

The memory comforts his host, except there is a dread in it also. And then the woman pushes the boy away and gets up to leave, and Zuko understands. 

So he doesn’t leave. 

“Mom?” his host says tentatively, and in the memory it sounds like a real voice. It’s not a word Zuko knows, and the definition he pulls from his host’s head is jumbled and confusing. 

“No,” he answers honestly, stroking his host’s hair. It tenses for a moment, but the contact makes it relax almost immediately. 

“I want Mom,” his host moans, and its desires are slightly odd but Zuko fulfills them, stroking its back and pressing the memory’s mouth into its hair. It’s a filial relationship. Not the sort Yeerks have, but vaguely akin to those of Hork-Bajir. The only difference is he doesn’t have to watch out for anything sharp. “ _Mommy!_ Mommy, don’t go! Don’t _leave_ me with him!”

Another memory flash—that _man_ again—and Zuko smoothes his host’s hair out of its face. It weeps, and clear liquid spills out of its eyes. 

“Is that your superior officer?” he asks. 

“No. Yes,” the host says, and weeps harder. Cries. Humans call it crying. “Don’t _leave_ me with him.” 

“If he interferes with your usefulness as a host he will be dealt with,” Zuko says, smoothing a hand through the host’s hair again. It seems to respond well to that. 

“Just don’t leave me _alone_ with him,” the host pleads. Zuko gives it an odd look. 

“You are a host,” he says, puzzled. “You will never be permitted to be alone again.” 

“Promise?” it asks.


	3. Chapter 3

Later, Zuko looks at his new host in the mirror and remembers Ozai Three’s tail blade sliding through its hair and the way his eyes narrowed in thought. He imitates the gesture and looks, and there is a scar there. A burn scar, he thinks, from the look of it. He’s not sure how human skin scars. 

He starts to ask, but his host won’t look. Automatically he touches the memory, and pain blossoms inside him like a star, so hot and sharp like a burst of light: a bright, searing impact. 

The host _cringes_. 

< Stop, > it chokes. Zuko withdraws, because upsetting it is unnecessary. 

< This wound, > he asks. < Is this a battle scar? >

< No. Yes, > the host says. It is remembering its superior officer again, and Zuko realizes that the scar was a punishment for insubordination. He touches it, frowning into the mirror. His host still won’t look, and curious, he undresses it—awkwardly, with his bandaged arm, but without too much difficulty. He is uncertain if Ozai Three is correct in his assessment of this host as a warrior, and he wants to see if—

Ah. 

Zuko blinks into the mirror, touching the yellowish-purple patches on his host’s stomach. They’re sore to the touch, and after a moment he realizes they’re a form of injury. Something from a blunt impact, he assumes, something that couldn’t quite break this odd, soft flesh. There are similar markings on his host’s arms and back, although they’re all slightly different colors. 

One of the ones on his host’s arm is shaped like a human hand. It remembers being gripped there by its superior officer. 

Zuko understands the scar. The scar is a specific punishment, delivered swiftly and sharply and in immediate reaction to a specific transgression: speaking back against a direct order. The discolorations—the bruises, his host’s mind supplies—the bruises don’t have a direct cause. He touches the memories for each and the host cringes away from them. Zuko spares a moment to stroke its consciousness quellingly, and looks over the memories as he does. They are all sharp flashes of violence and the fear in them is . . . it’s _wrong_. 

Zuko has been punished by superiors. Zuko _has_ punished inferiors. 

The way his host’s superior does it is not the appropriate way. It’s . . . there’s a _malice_ in it, and not a malice he understands. 

< These are not battle wounds, > he says. His host hides against him. It’s . . . it’s a strange feeling. 

< No. They’re not, > it says. Zuko strokes its consciousness again, and it presses closer against him hesitantly. It’s soothing, having it act like that—still not the normal way, not at _all_ , but much closer to it than when it . . . when it . . . 

He doesn’t know what to call it, exactly, but that moment when it showed him how to walk in its body . . . 

It was strange, that moment. 

But then, so is this one. 

< This will be a battle scar, > he says, touching the bandaged arm.


	4. Chapter 4

Zuko’s host is a restless prowl across the back of his mind. He makes a halfhearted attempt to subdue it, but like he’s realizing is going to be normal the other doesn’t sink beneath him, just slips to the side past the point of pressure. This is definitely not usual. Perhaps humans have a secondary brain somewhere, but if they did he’d think someone would’ve _mentioned_ it. 

< Cease, > he orders, and his host ripples warily. 

< We shouldn’t be here, > it says. Considering that “here” is his host’s home, Zuko can’t see why. 

< I will decide that, > he tells it sternly—you have to use a firm voice with hosts. His new one, however, does not seem as affected by the tone as all his previous ones have been. It’s a human thing, he assumes. 

< I _mean_ it, > it says, and its mind flashes with memories of its superior officer. Zuko pauses before retorting, and touches one of the memories: it unfolds, slowly, and his host hides behind him. 

_looming, and closeness_

_and PAIN_

He examines the memory more carefully, peeling it apart into layers, and can find no direct cause for it. There is only the effect: his host a bruised and bloody curl on a hard, cold surface. Linoleum, his host’s memories supplies; the kitchen floor. 

< How did you earn that punishment? > he asks, although of course he already knows the answer. 

< I was in the way, > his host says, still not looking. It’s a lie, after a fashion—the host _was_ in its superior officer’s path, but it was not blocking it. At worst, a half-decent swat would’ve gotten it out of the way. 

Apparently his host’s superior officer does not care about things like that. 

< I see, > Zuko says, and the front door of his host’s home opens. He turns to look, and his host shrinks down small. It is, unsurprisingly, his host’s superior officer. He looks for the proper greeting, but his host has no answer for him. His host, apparently, avoids speaking to his superior officer. 

“What are you staring at?” his host’s superior officer says. Zuko didn’t think he was staring, but he supposes a human might have different impressions of what counts as it. 

“Sorry,” he says, because his host is not being very helpful. His host, in fact, wants to run out the back door. 

< We _really_ shouldn’t be here, > his host says urgently. Zuko frowns. 

His host’s superior officer _glares_. 

“Get that nasty look off your face, you disrespectful brat,” he says, and then he steps forward and slaps them. Zuko is startled; his host is cringing. It didn’t hurt too badly, but his host is expecting hit again, and Zuko— “I said stop _looking_ at me like that!” 

His host’s superior officer goes to strike them again, and Zuko slips into his host’s reflexes and dodges the hit, and then his host’s superior officer is _furious_. 

Locked in the bathroom two minutes later with his host’s superior officer pounding on the door and screaming at him and his host quaking in terror in his mind, Zuko decides that something _definitely_ needs to be done about this. He pulls out his host’s communicator—a cell phone, they call it—and calls Azula Eight Nine Five. 

“Hey, hot stuff!” she says sweetly, which definitely means she’s around humans. The door creaks violently. Zuko gets the impression it’s going to break. His host is _certain_ it’s going to break, and just as certain that they’ll regret ever being born once it does. 

“I require backup,” he says, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the screaming. “My host’s superior officer is proving to be a problem.” 

“Sure, babe, I’ll be right there!” she chirps. “Anything I should bring?” 

“A Dracon beam,” Zuko says. “Or someone to put in his head. Maybe both, just in case.” 

“No problem!” she says, and hangs up. Zuko looks around the bathroom. Nothing particularly useful reveals itself, so far as improvised weapons go. 

Well, this host _is_ trained in martial arts, he supposes, and moves to the opposite side of the bathroom as the door starts to splinter at the lock. The door bangs open and his host’s superior officer charges in in a rage, and Zuko immediately punches him in the throat. 

It’s not as effective as it would’ve been with Hork-Bajir hands, but it’s fairly effective. His host’s superior officer stumbles, choking, and Zuko drops his host’s body into a crouch and sweeps his legs out from underneath him. He goes down _hard_ , and smashes his head against the sink. 

< He’s gonna _kill_ us for that! > Zuko’s host cries in a panic, and Zuko presses his consciousness against its own reassuringly. 

< Unlikely, > he says as they run out of the bathroom. His host’s superior officer is strong, but he doesn’t move like he knows too much about fighting with anything but simple brute force, and his host is also simply _faster_. Evading him until Azula Eight Nine Five arrives should not prove difficult, and even if it does they can always punch him again. 

< You don’t understand! > his host says, still terrified. 

< It’s fine, host, > Zuko says patiently. His host’s superior officer appears in the doorway of the bathroom, breathing heavily and bleeding from the temple. Zuko follows his host’s instincts and bolts up the stairs, and the other charges after them, shouting furiously. If he catches them, he will injure them very, very badly, Zuko’s host’s memories tell him. 

First he’ll have to actually catch them, of course. 

Zuko reaches the landing and leaps over the railing, landing on the sofa below with a bone-jarring thud and leaving his host’s superior officer a floor above them. The front door, he decides—outside is safe, his host’s memories tell him—and rolls off the sofa to scramble for it. His host’s superior officer thunders back down the stairs. Zuko makes it to the porch before the man grabs their arm bruisingly tight and drags them back into the house. He is very, _very_ strong. 

For a human, anyway. 

This will probably hurt, Zuko acknowledges, and carefully takes the pain receptors away from his host, who’s panicking all over again. The front door falls back shut and his host’s superior officer hits them once and then twice, _much_ harder than the last time, and then Zuko knees him in the gut. 

The ensuing fight is incredibly unpleasant, but Zuko’s had worse, and he can keep his host from feeling most of it. 

The doorbell rings, and his host’s superior officer’s demeanor suddenly changes completely. He stands up straight, his furious expression swinging to neutral as he straightens his rumpled clothes and hair. 

“Get out of my fucking sight, and _don’t_ go anywhere,” he orders flatly, pointing towards the kitchen. Zuko touches his host’s bloody mouth with a grimace, but goes. At least, goes most of the way. 

He waits, and watches from the archway as his host’s superior officer goes to the door and opens it. His host watches too, hurting and frightened but also confused. 

Azula Eight Nine Five is on the other side of the door with two adult Controllers from the Sharing, a Dracon beam, and a metal box just about big enough to fit a human head inside, smiling pleasantly. 

Zuko sighs in relief, and his host . . . 

< Oh, > his host realizes. 

< I told you he’d be dealt with if he interfered, > Zuko says as the adult Controllers shove their way inside and grab the man. He immediately struggles. They are clearly very used to restraining struggling humans, though, and unaffected by his cursing and shouting. 

< Really? > his host says wonderingly, as if it can’t believe it. It touches its bloody mouth again. 

“Baby!” Azula says brightly as she steps into the house and kicks the door shut behind her. “Come give me a hand with this, Zuko, it’s _heavy_.” 

“Who is it?” Zuko asks, heading over and taking the box from her. 

“Jee Five Three Three,” she says, dusting off her hands and then folding them behind her back. “He needed a human host anyway.” 

“Oh, right,” Zuko remembers, and opens the box. Inside there is familiar sludgy water and a single Yeerk swimming in languid circles. His host makes a soft, startled noise in its mind, and Zuko pats it reassuringly again. Hosts are so _young_. Humans not as much so as Hork-Bajir, but all the same. 

“Lee, what the _hell_?!” his host’s superior officer yells. 

“Be quiet, human,” Zuko says, then sets the box on the coffee table and looks to Azula, who smiles beatifically and steps back from it. 

“You know what to do,” she says, and the adult Controllers drag his host’s struggling and shouting superior officer forward. Zuko’s host watches raptly as they shove his head into the box, water splashing out over the table. 

His host’s superior officer keeps struggling for a while—longer than most involuntary hosts, in fact—but he stops struggling in the end all the same, and the other two release him. He lifts his head out of the box and straightens up, water dripping down his face, then turns his head towards them with a blank expression. 

“How’s the new body, Jee?” Azula asks flippantly, inspecting her host’s nails. 

“All squared away,” Zuko’s host’s superior officer says, although of course it’s not him talking anymore, and then bows stiffly. “Reporting for duty, sir.” 

Zuko’s host makes the most thrilled sound that Zuko has ever _heard_. 

< Oh my God, is it Christmas? > it asks. < Is this what Christmas is like? >

< I have no idea what Christmas is, > Zuko says, though some of his host’s memories are filling in the blanks even as he speaks. The question still doesn’t really make sense. < He was causing problems. Now he won’t be. >

< I think I’m going to cry, > his host says, laughing helplessly, and Zuko frowns in bemusement. 

< Cry? > he says. < Why would you cry? >

< Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, > his host says, touching their bloody mouth again, and really _means_ it. 

Zuko . . . Zuko is not sure how to respond to that, but can’t help feeling oddly pleased all the same.


	5. Chapter 5

Azula Eight Nine Five has been experimenting with human makeup. She decides she prefers a change in look to the soft, inviting colors her host wore prior to agreeing to infestation and after some consideration and study begins to wear a dark brown eyeliner and dark red lipstick. Pretending to be human in the presence of uninitiated members of The Sharing who are commenting on the change, Zuko Five Three Three laughs with the humans and kisses the lipstick all off. Azula’s host curls up in the back of its mind, weeping softly for want of its mate as said mate’s body touches it, and Azula giggles and squirms away from Zuko Five Three Three and he chases her out of the circle of firelight and into the dunes. 

He grabs her around the waist and carries her off as she shrieks with laughter, and they tumble down behind one of the more private dunes. Once they’re out of sight and earshot, Azula informs Zuko Five Three Three of their new feeding schedule and they debate the timing behind offering full membership to the humans they’ve been mentoring in the Sharing. Zuko Five Three Three has an odd talent for recruiting voluntary hosts—Azula has it _too_ , of course, but _her_ talents in the recruitment process rely on feeding on human fears and giving them freedom from all those things they can’t stand about life. Zuko Five Three Three just makes it sound like a _better_ life. 

Definitely an odd talent. 

But it makes him useful, and as a matter of fact more useful than Azula’d expected him to be when she’d requested him to operate as her partner in The Sharing. 

She’d just wanted to make Mai Six Two Four suffer for refusing her. 

They mate briefly once they’ve covered all the important information, because the humans will expect them to come back looking as if they have and in Azula’s personal experience misleading a creature with the truth is always easier. Zuko Five Three Three bites her in the middle of it, which she disapproves of, but it’s not unusual in human mating. She still scratches his back in retaliation, though. 

She considers describing the entangled intimacy of human mating to Mai Six Two Four, describing to her the concentrated and careful way Zuko Five Three Three performs it, and enjoys the process more than usual with the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
